I shot you
by bauble123
Summary: Molly shot Sherlock. Greg shot Sherlock. Sherlock shot John. Drabble. Response to a prompt


I shot you!

_Several separate short drabbley stories that are nonetheless linked by dint of guns and characters._

_Response to "I shot you!" prompt._

One

_A poignant tale from the view point of Molly, of the few seconds when her life and all she had to live for ended._

I looked at him. I swear that it had gone too far. He knew how I felt about him, I'm sure he did, but yet he refused to acknowledge it. I stared at him, unspeaking. He was barely even looking at me – he was probably formulating calculations for his wedding in his head. I could scarcely believe he hadn't told me until he was firmly engaged. Oh, yes, perhaps he thought that was better but it wasn't. It could never be. I wanted to be that girl, the girl he was soon to become one with. I didn't want to be some stupid chit of a girl that hung around at the morgue and had a cat because she couldn't get anyone to love her, and because she wanted no-one but Sherlock Holmes. The murder weapon lay on the table next to the corpse. I raised it, the blood-spattered pistol, and removed it from its plastic bag.

"How could you, Sherlock?" I asked, the tears beginning to trickle down my face. He did not turn around.

"What's that, Molly?" he muttered. My hand shook, but I cocked the pistol.

"If I can't have you, no-one can – especially not _her_." I said, my voice quavering wildly. Then he turned, and I saw the fear and surprise in his eyes as I shot him. I don't think I meant to kill him… I just meant to teach him a lesson, like Mary had done all those years ago, but it went further than that, and he fell to the floor with a dull thud.

I began to sob uncontrollably, dropping the pistol and sinking to my knees. They must have heard the gun shot. They came, and they checked his pulse, and then they stared at me accusatorily, and I wondered why they didn't run him upstairs to A and E. I know now why they didn't; it was too late. Sherlock Holmes was already dead.

Two

_An experiment gone wrong._

It was a perfectly normal day – well, for a little while at least. I was walking home from work, having taken the tube, when it happened. I was about to cross the road when he heard a gunshot. I looked around wildly and then dropped to the ground with a cry as I saw the bullet speeding straight towards me. But I was too slow, and the bullet grazed my shoulder. It hurt horribly, but I couldn't stop the pain and so I got on with dealing with the situation at hand. Blood dripped down my arm, hot and wet. It wasn't serious enough to cause me to black out, so I tore off my jumper and clamped it to the wound. Beneath my fingers I felt it become sodden with blood.

I looked up to see who had shot me and knew instantly what had happened. Sherlock was leaning out of the window, an expression of half-concerned, half-amused disbelief on his face.

"I shot you, John!" he called. "God, John, I shot you!"

"I know that, Sherlock!" I yelled. "I'm not an idiot! Mind ferrying me to A and E? You can pay for the taxi!" Sherlock nodded and I saw him slide away from the window, clearly pelting down the stairs. At that moment, Mrs Hudson hurried out of the door and across the road to where I stood, seeping blood.

"John! What happened? I told Sherlock he shouldn't be doing these trajectory experiments in the street. You don't know who you might hit, I said… Are you okay?"

"A little dizzy from blood loss, and slightly shot, but mostly alive."

"That's good then, dear."

"Sure it is."

Three

_Psychopaths get bored. And often turn to homicide._

"Sherlock Holmes, come out with your hands up!" Lestrade called through the megaphone. He was not enjoying this one bit. Anderson was, but all Donovan's cracks about Sherlock giving them a body had finally come true, and she was finding it difficult to deal with, unable to shake the feeling that somehow all this was her fault. Lestrade's phone buzzed.

MAKE ME. Read the text. Lestrade groaned inwardly. Sherlock Holmes was going to be the most difficult murderer they had ever had to deal with. The head of the SWAT team came over and told Lestrade his plan, adding, "He trusts you. You're the best man for the job." Lestrade paled. This was too much. He went to the door of 221B and knocked.

"Sherlock, I'm coming in there." He said. "It's Greg. Greg Lestrade." His phone whirred again. He pulled it out. This time the text read: I'LL PUT THE KETTLE ON. Lestrade nodded to it and opened the door, his pistol discreetly hidden beneath his jacket. He got upstairs. Sherlock was lying on the sofa, unmoving. "I didn't want it to come to this." Lestrade said, and pulled the trigger. "I shot you, Sherlock Holmes."


End file.
